She'll Take It (13 page)
Authors: Mary Carter
“God hears all of our prayers, dear.”
“Well thanks, this has been great.”
“Is there anything you'd like to confess, my dear?”
I'm addicted to love. I say “fuck” three plus times a day. I'm twenty-nine and I don't know what to do with my life. I'm jealous of my brother. I haven't voted for two years. The last time I went to the dentist I stole a water pick. I talk to cockroaches. Three years ago I spent two weeks in a psyche ward for taking a Bic razor to my wrists. I have cellulite on my thighs. My left breast is slightly larger than my right. Sometimes I shave my eyebrows because I'm too lazy to pluck. I have a hundred and eighty-eight stolen objects in my closet and I'm afraid that if I stop stealing I'll die.
“Not today, Father, I think I'm good.”
Chapter 13
“M
elanie, it's your mother. I just wanted to remind you about dinner on Saturday. Make sure you bring a gift, darling. Corinne wouldn't say anything of course, but it's the right thing to do. I'd also like to Clear The Plates with youâif it weren't for you, we'd be bringing the boys. I wanted to bring them anyway, but Richard said we need to give you some time. Don't tell him I mentioned it because it will make him anxious. Richard is on new medication. I don't think it's as strong as the one you're on, but there's no need for you to mention it. We can't wait to see you andâI have a little surprise for you too, darling. Bye-bye.”
elanie, it's your mother. I just wanted to remind you about dinner on Saturday. Make sure you bring a gift, darling. Corinne wouldn't say anything of course, but it's the right thing to do. I'd also like to Clear The Plates with youâif it weren't for you, we'd be bringing the boys. I wanted to bring them anyway, but Richard said we need to give you some time. Don't tell him I mentioned it because it will make him anxious. Richard is on new medication. I don't think it's as strong as the one you're on, but there's no need for you to mention it. We can't wait to see you andâI have a little surprise for you too, darling. Bye-bye.”
I stare at the answering machine while violent thoughts cascade through my brain like a slot machine from hell. Knife! Gun! Bomb! Who does she think she is? My mother, Rene, had become a royal pain in the ass ever since my dad left her and she dropped the second
e
off her name. She lives in New Haven, Connecticut, in a two-story brick house with her new husband, Richard, and his five Bichon Frises, that is, “the boys.” Last Thanksgiving, Mom set up a kiddie table for the boys so they could dine next to us, gobbling turkey parts from little placemats in the shape of bones. “Mother,” I made the mistake of saying as I stared at the drooling beasts, “do they have to be in the same room?”
e
off her name. She lives in New Haven, Connecticut, in a two-story brick house with her new husband, Richard, and his five Bichon Frises, that is, “the boys.” Last Thanksgiving, Mom set up a kiddie table for the boys so they could dine next to us, gobbling turkey parts from little placemats in the shape of bones. “Mother,” I made the mistake of saying as I stared at the drooling beasts, “do they have to be in the same room?”
My mother shot a “didn't I tell you” look to Richard and ran her hands through her new hair. It was short, choppy, and furniture polish red. The ends stood straight out, and she looked radioactive, as if touching a single strand could zap you into yesteryear. I kind of liked the funky cut but it didn't fit her personality. “Melanie, we know you're having a hard time adjusting to my new marriage,” my mother said as I glared at the boys.
I put my fork down and stood my ground. “That's not true, Mom,” I said in a reasonable tone.
“You refuse to accept the fact that Richard and the boys are family,” my mother continued, blowing past my incredible show of maturity. “You always do this, Melanie. God forbid, if anyone in this family finds a little happiness, you've got to go and stir up some drama. I warned you about a career in acting so please, please don't make a scene in front of Richard and the boys.”
I looked to my brother Zach and Corinne for support. They buried themselves in their sweet potatoes and fussed with my niece and nephew. I knew Corinne didn't want dogs at the table either; she barely let her children sit with us. But she was a coward and wasn't going to say a word. Richard didn't say a word either, but a flush rose in his cheeks as he grabbed another buttered roll from the turkey-shaped basket Corinne had weaved by hand.
“I don't have a problem with Richard,” I said, smiling at Richard with clenched teeth, “but
the boys
are
dogs,
Mother. They're dogs!” I suppose a tiny bit of my anger was decades old; Mother had never let
us
have a dog growing up. I was glaring at Zachary now;
he
was the one who went on a three-day hunger strike the time a stray mutt followed him home and Mom and Dad refused to let us keep him. They said they drove him to a “farm” where he would be very happy. Then Mom started to cry, and I immediately melted into a puddle of guilt. Richard scooped the boys up in his arms. They squirmed and yipped, turkey giblets hanging from their whiskers. Corinne put her face close to her plate and started shoveling like it was a driveway buried in snow, and Zachary shook his head at me. “Let's just give Melanie some time,” Richard said as Mom sobbed across the table. “When she's ready, we'll Clear The Plates.”
the boys
are
dogs,
Mother. They're dogs!” I suppose a tiny bit of my anger was decades old; Mother had never let
us
have a dog growing up. I was glaring at Zachary now;
he
was the one who went on a three-day hunger strike the time a stray mutt followed him home and Mom and Dad refused to let us keep him. They said they drove him to a “farm” where he would be very happy. Then Mom started to cry, and I immediately melted into a puddle of guilt. Richard scooped the boys up in his arms. They squirmed and yipped, turkey giblets hanging from their whiskers. Corinne put her face close to her plate and started shoveling like it was a driveway buried in snow, and Zachary shook his head at me. “Let's just give Melanie some time,” Richard said as Mom sobbed across the table. “When she's ready, we'll Clear The Plates.”
Richard is a marriage therapist and is writing a book on marriage called
Clearing The Plates
. It is supposed to be a friendly way to “get rid of the dirty plates between you and your spouse.” When everyone has “Cleared The Plates” then it's time to “Set The Table.” If you asked me, it was just an excuse to hurl insults at the other person in such a way that they looked like the bad guy if they tried to defend themselves. It was genius really, but it didn't make it any less annoying. I think his real expertise on marriage stems from experienceâhe has five ex-wives. I've often wondered if he acquired one Bichon Frise per marriage and that's why there are five of them, but I've yet to work up the nerve to ask.
Clearing The Plates
. It is supposed to be a friendly way to “get rid of the dirty plates between you and your spouse.” When everyone has “Cleared The Plates” then it's time to “Set The Table.” If you asked me, it was just an excuse to hurl insults at the other person in such a way that they looked like the bad guy if they tried to defend themselves. It was genius really, but it didn't make it any less annoying. I think his real expertise on marriage stems from experienceâhe has five ex-wives. I've often wondered if he acquired one Bichon Frise per marriage and that's why there are five of them, but I've yet to work up the nerve to ask.
A certain amount of the blame for the descent of the Zeitgars has to go to my father and his exodus to the Florida Keys where he asked my mother for a divorce via a postcard with a dancing starfish. Zach, who had just graduated from Cornell University, took over my father's law practice and went from twenty-five to fifty overnight. Last year he and Corinne packed up their SUV and moved to Connecticut, just three houses away from “Rene,” Richard, and the boys. Zach said it was so my mother could be closer to her grandchildren, Zachary Junior, five, and “little Corinne,” three. I think it's because he's a mama's boy. They live in a two-story brick house with a manicured lawn and a territorial view of Target. It's a nice house, but it's been severely abused by my sister-in-law, Corinne.
The house has been beaten with ribbons, hearts, dolls, pastel color schemes, and extensive stenciling. I bring sleek interior decorating magazines with me every time I visit just so I can imagine what the living room could look like without the pink glass bowls filled with dinner mints, beaded pillows proudly displaying the American flag, and crocheted teddy bears staring at you from the mantle. If the shiny wood floors and simple white couches in the magazines fail to calm me down and I start hyperventilating, then I have to conjure up the
Saint of Frank Lloyd Wright
and we feel the pain together.
Saint of Frank Lloyd Wright
and we feel the pain together.
The kids are cute but my nephew, Zachary Junior, is way too astute for his age. Last week on the phone he actually asked me what a “psyche ward” was. At first I gave him the benefit of the doubt, even though my heart was galloping like the winner of the Kentucky Derby.
“Where did you hear that word, Zachary?” I asked.
“Aunt Melanie, it's two words, not one,” Zachary Junior answered in a voice way too condescending for a five-year-old. Bloody pretentious snobs the lot of them.
“You got meâtwo words. Where did you hear them?” I prodded while he hemmed and hawed.
“Daddy,” he said finally when I told him I'd bring him taffy if he told me.
“What exactly did Daddy say?” I asked in a singsong voice as if I were as happy as a clam. (Are clams really happy? I made a mental note to conduct a study.)
Zachary picked up on my mood and said in a loud, cheerful voice, “He said if you didn't get your act together you were destined for another stint in the psyche ward.”
Had to hand it to the kid, he handled those big words like a pro. I have every intention of clawing my brother's eyes out the next time I see him. But first, I have to get a birthday gift for Corinne.
Manhattan Kitchens, nestled on Park Avenue and Twenty-first, is one of my favorite overpriced culinary boutiques. They're snobby with a capital S, and it's always a pleasure to steal from them. I know I promised I wouldn't steal anymore, but this is an exception. Zach had no business telling a five-year-old his Aunt Melanie did a stint in the psyche ward and knowing Mr. “I've-never-even-had-a-past-due-library-book-perfect” was about to house a stolen item in his kitchen was more pleasure than I could bear.
Today the store is really crowded, which is always a good thing. But I didn't count on the cameras and sensors. When were those put in? I pick up a porcelain gravy boat and feel it up. Sure enough the tag on the bottom is lumpy. I almost laugh out loud. What genius thought of this? Let's put a sensor in the price tag. Thieves will never think of removing it. I hang around the pots and pans for a while, just to see if anyone accidentally trips off the alarm and how it is handled. You'd be surprised how many times they go buggy, beeping every few seconds. A few false alarms and most store clerks will wave everyone through with a tension headache and an apologetic smile. While I wait, an associate sneaks up and asks me if I need any help. I pretend to be seriously into the nonstick pans and give him a perturbed look. It works; he slinks off to help someone with the new Mega Toasters.
Like a game of Shoplifting Twister, I rub the tag off the gravy boat with my left hand while pretending to be shopping with my right. I move my foot over the pieces of shredded tag and shuffle in behind a woman who is so obese no one will notice me standing behind her. Slipping out the door would be possible if I had one of their shopping bags. That way, if the alarm did go off, I'd look innocent and hold up my bag as if I paid for itâthen pray they wouldn't badger me for the receipt. “It's a gift,” I'd say as I pawed through my purse, totally exasperated until they waved me on. But how was I going to get a bag? They were only giving them to those who made purchases. I could make a purchase and get a bag, but I refused to. The store was so expensive! Not that I didn't have the money, it was just the principle of the thing. Who in their right mind would pay eighty-two dollars for a gravy boat?
Someone touches me on the elbow, and I almost drop the gravy boat. It's the sneaky sale associate again.
“Careful,” he whines. “You break it, you buy it. Would you like a basket?” He shoves a silver bin at me.
“No thank you,” I say, pushing it back and shaking my auburn wig. “I wouldn't want to scratch it.”
In a flash the gravy boat is out of my hands. “Of course you wouldn't. We'll just keep it safe and sound until you're ready.” With that, he and my gravy boat sail away.
I circle the store until the sales clerk busies himself with another customer, and then I head back to the gravy boats where I proceed to take another one. This time I hover behind a stack of teapots while removing the tag. I hide there until a woman with a baby stroller wheels to the front of the line and starts arguing with the cashier about the price of refrigerator magnets. I thank the
Saint of Stressed-Out Moms
for the distraction and sneak up behind her as if I'm a fellow want-to-be-mom with a ticking womb.
Saint of Stressed-Out Moms
for the distraction and sneak up behind her as if I'm a fellow want-to-be-mom with a ticking womb.
As I'm goo-ing and gaa-ing at the baby, I carefully slip the gravy boat into the little storage basket at the back of the stroller. Genius really, that those suckers have so much storage room! But then I have to wait for her to leave, which takes forever, and really tries my patience. I mean, how long can you look at cutlery without going stark-raving mad?
Meanwhile, the twerpy sales associate keeps looking at me. Every few seconds he holds the other gravy boat up and waves it at me like it's a doggie treat. I have to get out of here. I slip out the door and wait. It takes the young mother twenty-five minutes to emerge, but when she does, I follow her. She's walking at a pretty fast clip, and just when I think I've lost my gravy boat, she stops at the corner and I'm able to make my move. I pretend to drop my purse and while I'm bent down to pick it up I simply grab the gravy boat out of the stroller without her even noticing. You know, people really should pay more attention to what is going on around them.
“Oh my. What a beautiful gravy boat,” Corinne gushes. “Manhattan Kitchens. But they're so expensive.” You can tell she's impressed; her face is cherry red. Corinne is in a constant state of blushing and apologizing as if an invisible piece of toilet paper were permanently stuck to her behind. She has beautiful, milky white skin but drab mousy brown hair that hangs past her shoulders. I hinted around once about taking her to get her hair cut and styled, but she quickly told me she “had no time for vanity.” Then she smiled and said, “You would understand if you had children.”
I stewed on this for a long time. Why didn't she say “You will understand
when
you have children”? Is she assuming I'll never have children? Does she think I'm an unfit mother because I highlight my hair? She has big Bambi brown eyes and a small eyetooth that stands out against a row of otherwise perfectly shaped choppers. I constantly find myself wanting to cap it. More than once I've stopped myself from telling her to get it done. Once I suggested it to Zach and he had a fit.
when
you have children”? Is she assuming I'll never have children? Does she think I'm an unfit mother because I highlight my hair? She has big Bambi brown eyes and a small eyetooth that stands out against a row of otherwise perfectly shaped choppers. I constantly find myself wanting to cap it. More than once I've stopped myself from telling her to get it done. Once I suggested it to Zach and he had a fit.
“I love my wife exactly the way she is,” he said to me in a huff. “Do you get that? Exactly.” I guess that means I shouldn't mention exercise or a wardrobe change either.
Corinne wears pastel polyester suits. Today she is in a soft yellow suit with huge yellow buttons. The top button is missing, and she's replaced it with a gold angel pin. I mean, it's just down right cruel no one says anything to her. If Kim is religious, Corinne is a fanatic. I always leave family gatherings with bruises on my shins because my brother Zach has to kick me under the table every time I say something inappropriate. I guess he's afraid if Corinne blushes once too often she'll overheat and blow. She's still gushing over the gravy boat, hanging onto it like it is Noah's Ark. It's not as satisfying as I thought it would be.
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